It was early morning. Varek steered his horse patiently towards the town of Akoris. The chief had appointed him to the supply runs – both a burden and an appreciation. They didn’t easily trust people with the supply duty – but a marshal researcher, reliable as he was, was a good candidate.

He didn’t mind these runs. The more time he could spend away from the dark corridors and cold rooms of the Arcanum complex, the better. He’d been taking up research assignments as often as he could manage, just to be elsewhere. Anywhere else.Out here, he could almost remember what it felt like to breathe — to be something more than useful. To be alive.

Early spring mornings still came with a chill though. His fireborn blood was not cut out for this weather. The cold mist seeped under his clothes and into his bones, no matter how many layers he wore. But it was slowly getting better.

He pulled his cloak tighter as he sighed, his breath leaving a cloud of steam against the cool air. The sky was clear though: he expected warmth to return soon, once the sun crept higher. The rhythm of his horse’s steps felt comfortably familiar. The usual knot in his stomach eased with every step he took that led him farther from that cursed order.

Despite the morning chill, the town already felt lively. Carriages ran across the cobblestone streets, nearly colliding with peddlers pulling their carts and yelling curses at each passing horsemen or carriage. His horse will be waiting for him at the stables just outside the town. It was best this way.

His black hair caught the soft light of early morning; violet markings running like delicate veins across his dark ash skin marked him as unmistakably fireborn. His eyes, glinting like molten amethyst, scanned the quiet streets, taking in the muted bustle of carts and merchants.

The night rain left the streets muddy and wet, his booths splashing up murky water at every step. The market was closed today, but he knew where to go to find his merchants. He worked fast and precise, no distractions, just gathering supplies, and avoiding the looks. He did not like to draw attention to himself – the Arcanum gear did that for him, nevertheless. Some saluted him, some others looked away fearfully. He was used to both reactions by now and didn’t desire either one.

The chill in his body eased as the sun climbed higher, its rays drying up the streets and warming the stone. As always, he was quick and efficient, allowing him time to be by himself. That was the time of the day he valued the most. Nobody to give orders, and nobody to expect some, either. A moment to exhale, to remind himself he was, somehow, still alive.

That is when he saw her. Chestnut hair catching the sun, flowing around her shoulders in waves. She was wrestling with two crates, each looking heavier than herself, resting them on her knee for a moment.

Then his eyes caught on something else. The gold in her pale skin. Markings twisting on her hands and neck like molten fire. Fireborn like him, yet so different. Unusual sight in this part of the world.

He jumped up and grabbed a crate from her hand without thinking better of it. She thanked him and showed him the direction. He held the door for her, and followed her inside the herbalist shop.

The place was cozy, not particularly spacious, but packed from floor to ceiling with jars and vials full of salves, creams, herb mixes, and gods know what else. He nodded when she thanked him, but forgot to move. In a moment, she was on her ladder, filling up the jars with practiced hands, and he was still standing there, blinking at the stacked shelves – and at her.

“Can I help you, stranger?” her voice carried from the top of the ladder, looking down at him as if she had conquered the whole world.

He blinked, trying to say something coherent. He gave her a random list of herbs he didn’t need in an attempt to linger just a moment longer. The comforting scent of herbs, the warm light of the oil lamps flooded him with a calm he hadn’t felt in a very long time.

“Nice shop,” he muttered just to say something, and wished he could have come up with something smoother. Smarter.

She just smiled, luminous and kind. “Thank you, it is my mother’s shop really. I just tend to it nowadays.”

Her eyes flicked to him, looking him up and down while her hands worked on bundling up the requested herbs.

“Marshal researcher, huh?” she muttered when his insignia caught her eyes. “Don’t quite look like one,” she added with a tease in her voice.

“What do I look like, then?” he asked quietly, forcing calm into his voice. He wasn’t used to conversations.

She shrugged. “I don’t know, marshal fits,” she said, eyes on him now, “when I think researcher… I see someone with balding head and curved back, locked away in a tower with old books and no company.”

To his surprise, he couldn’t hold back his laughter. “That’d be an archivist, miss,” he joked – another thing he never did.

She laughed against her blushing face. “I apologize if I have offended you, Master Marshal. Didn’t mean to.” Her giving him respect sounded more of a tease than real formal reverence.

“You don’t quite strike me as a herbalist, either,” he added after a pause. Her eyebrows lifted, a smile lighting up her face.

“Is that right, now?” she mumbled, her eyes dropping back to her work. “Why not?”

Varek was caught unprepared. He stumbled over his words. “I expected someone more… like… maybe a bit less… energetic?”

She bit her lips to keep herself from laughing. “You mean, someone soft-spoken, polite and wise? Then you’re after my mother, Master Marshal.”

“Please, miss, my name’s Varek. No need for formalities,” he said before he could swallow it, keeping his eyes on the delicate movement of her fingers.

“Well then, mine’s Syraa, no need for miss,” she countered, wrapping the entire order in brown paper.

“Take it with you, or have it shipped?” she asked, knowing Arcanum buyers don’t usually bother carrying their wares.

He asked to have it shipped, just like everything else. She grabbed a quill and filled out his form. Her writing caught his eyes, quick but neat – and she wrote with her right hand, something he found quite strange from a fireborn.

“You don’t see many fireborn around here,” he muttered to strike up a conversation.

She looked down, as if embarrassed. “I’m only half. My father was,” she shrugged, catching herself sharing far too much.

“Was?” he repeated with a tilt of his head.

She swallowed, unsure how much to share with a stranger. Let alone with an Arcanite stranger.

“Might as well still be,” she shrugged. “We don’t really know.”

He shifted uncomfortably. He wanted to hear more, but didn’t want to press her. He cleared his throat, muttered his thanks, and turned to leave.

“Hey, wait! If you’ll ever need anything else, you can find me at my stall on market days!” she added with a smile.